I took the same route I always did when I went on my morning run; over the bridge and through the city’s streets just after dawn, before jogging across the junk yard on my way home. Right before exiting the junk yard something caught my eye and I slowed to a walk, coming to a stop a long side a rusted out Chevy.
I looked at the frame that used to be white, all four tires were flat and barely hung on the wheels. It was almost as if the old heap was calling me, and I couldn’t look away. I peeked inside the driver-side window at the vinyl seat that were ripped and full of slits. And then it occurred to me.
I was staring at my first car, a 1978 Chevy Impala. For a moment I was back in high school, taking Charlene Westerlake to the Junior Prom. We double-dated that night with Norm and Betsy, our best friends. 1987 seemed like yesterday instead of thirty years back.
The mail greeted me as I opened the door and walked into the house. In among the ads and junk mail was an invitation to my high school reunion.
Before I changed my mind I checked the will-be-attending box, and went to look up Charlene on Facebook.